


Detour

by lynnmonster



Category: due South
Genre: Amnesty Challenge, Canada, Cliche, Community: ds_flashfiction, First Time, Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Series, Sharing Body Heat, Stranded, Trapped in a Small Space, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-30
Updated: 2003-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnmonster/pseuds/lynnmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First due South story I ever wrote! Posted for the 2003 Amnesty Challenge on the ds_flashfiction LJ community.  Cliche challenge response:  Cliches 1 (trapped in an elevator or other small space) & 10 (Truth or Dare), plus the ever-popular "sharing body heat" cliche just for extra fun.  And some smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detour

**Author's Note:**

> Original notes from 2003: Many thanks to imkalena for steering me away from the realm of the truly preposterous, lo those many months ago, and also for convincing me that I shouldn't just chuck this baby completely. Thanks also to heuradys for audiencing and justacat for her patented close reading.

So there I am, sitting in the driver's seat of this crappy old AMC Eagle station wagon from, like, 1983, and even though we're not moving at all, the snow swirling around us makes it look like we're in the middle of some kind of snowy tornado. Fraser called it a "white-out" and I can see why it got that name.

Anyway, like I said, even though it looks like we're moving, we're really stuck. I'm thinking that some of the vacuum lines must be disconnected; we were running all right on the way to the store, but right now I can't even get the car to start up again. As soon as this unexpected storm calms down, I'll get out and start poking around, but even if it was purring like the Goat, four-wheel drive doesn't do much good if the rest of the world is nothing but white. I guess I've been spoiled by Fraser's five P's; I expected a Mountie's car wouldn't dare be in less than perfect running condition, so I didn't bother to check it out once we'd gotten permission to borrow it, even if it did look older than dirt and twice as grimy.

I'm impatient, tapping on the steering wheel and squinting out the windshield, and I guess I must be driving Fraser batshit because his sudden "Ray!" is a lot louder than necessary.

"Sorry," I offer with a shrug of apology. "'M a little antsy."

His eyes crinkle a little at the corners, so even though he doesn't smile I know he's not mad. "Are you hungry, Ray? It appears we're going to be here for a while -- we could certainly break into our provisions and replace anything we've used before we set out."

"Yeah, I could eat." I reach back over the top of my headrest, but even stretching, with the damn thing poking into my gut, I can only touch the closest grocery bag with the tips of my fingers. I try to slither over and manage to get my sweater and shirt bunched up under my jacket, which is caught on the dangling seatbelt holder. I lunge, and I grunt as my air gets cut off, so I throw in a little shimmy and -- voilà -- I'm free! I land in a sprawl on the flattened-down back seat and have to chuckle. No siree bob, Fred Astaire ain't got nothing on me!

I check to see if Fraser's laughing, but he just looks hungry. _Really_ hungry.

"Oh, my, Benton, what big eyes you have!" I tease. "Didja borrow that look from the wolf?" He just looks a little ashamed instead of joking back, though, so I'm sorry I pointed it out and let it drop.

I grab the closest bag and rummage around inside. "Fraser, this is not food, this is pemmican, lemme get the next bag." Fraser motions for me to pass it up to him. "Wait, wait, no, hand me that back. I think I saw some beef jerky in there." He tosses me the beef jerky and fishes out a tin of that godawful stuff for himself. I gnaw on my strip of dried cow and watch as he starts taking things out of the bag and stacking them in the well between his feet.

He asks me to start passing up the rest of the bags, so I do, but I still have no clue why he's unpacking everything. Then I realize he wants to move as much stuff up front as possible, so that there's more room for us in the back. Suddenly, I'm aware of just how cold it is in the car, and how isolated we are.

"We're going to be here for a while, huh?" I ask.

"Not only that," Fraser said seriously, "but I'm afraid we're going to have to crack open one of the windows. We must have fresh air circulating in here if we're going to be stranded for any length of time."

My heart sinks at that a little, because it's cold enough in here already. I guess that's when I realize that as stupid as it sounds, it would be possible for the two of us to die in that dumb car. I mean, we won't, I know we won't -- this storm was unexpected but won't last very long, and there's plenty of stuff in the car. And Fraser knows every survival technique in the book and then some. But in *theory* we could. Possibly. Well, probably not. But I don't like being stranded like this.

I'm selfishly glad that Fraser is here with me.

* * *

I reach for another bag to pass up front, but it looks like we're finished. Fraser clambers into the back with me and settles the last of our supplies on his recently-vacated seat. While we're scootching around in the tight space in back, I can't help but notice that he's broader and more solid than I normally give him credit for.

This is where it starts to get weird. I mean, we've been close quarters before--like _submarine_ -sized close--and we practically live in each other's pockets these days. We've been in life-threatening situations more times than I can count. But for some reason, that humming connection that buzzes between us has never seemed so overwhelming, or so loud.

We wiggle around, trying to get comfortable and piling the woolen blankets from the trunk around ourselves like coocoons.

We just lie there for a while. I remember being a kid, lying down in the back of a station wagon just like this with Stinky Melnick, watching the moon chasing us out the window on our way home from summer camp. Well, just like this only I didn't want to get into Stinky's pants and we were in no danger of freezing our nuts off.

I pull my knit cap down further over my ears and try to ignore the fact that the only sounds I can hear are made by the wind, outside, and coming through the crack in the passenger-seat window.

"Wanna play Truth or Dare?" I ask Fraser, more to fill up the silence than anything else. Although maybe I could find out for sure a thing or two I've been wondering about.

"I think not, Ray," he says, obviously a little amused.

"Okay, then, how about 'initials'?"

A head shake no.

"I spy?"

Another head shake.

"Inky pinky?" I try to sound innocent.

I get a stern look.

"20 questions?"

"Not if we don't want a repeat of the Posada stakeout," he chides.

I try to turn my snort of amusement into a grumble and make a show of turning my back to him and arranging my covers. My display finally gets a grudging chuckle out of him.

I hear rustling and movement, and a pleased-sounding "Aha!" but I don’t want to give Fraser the satisfaction of a reaction.

Well, at least not _that_ kind of satisfaction.

Anyway, I'm busily pretending not to hear him when something warm and . . . stinky? . . . covers me. I finally look and I see he's found an old sleeping bag. It smells like eau de pooch with a faint hint of piss. I see that he's put it over me and my scratchy blanket, with almost none left for himself.

I roll over to face him . . . and what a nice face it is. "Benton," I say accusingly. "That's not buddies."

Lucky for him, he doesn't pretend to misunderstand me. 'Well, Ray, I do have an extra layer of subcutaneous fat --"

Now, I may be a tenderfoot when it comes to all the Arctic survival crap we're going to be dealing with on this quest, but even I know that we'd be warmer closer together. I point at him -- and his eyes practically cross trying to focus on my finger, we're so close already -- "Do not try to spare my, whaddyacallit, sensibilities, we're close to freezing here. We can share the dog bed. We should _probably_ be sharing body heat already, shouldn't we? So get over here."

"Quite right," he says, and scoots under my lifted arm while I flop the blanket over both of us. Then, with a look on his face like he's about to eat something nasty, he clears his throat and says quietly, "In fact, we'd conserve our heat even more efficiently if we were to remove all, or at least most, of our clothes and use them to trap our combined warmth."

I try to catch his eyes, but he's determinedly staring at a point somewhere above and behind my left ear.

I roll my eyes, which he probably can't see since he's still pretending that the white outside the window is so fascinating. I take off my jacket and my sweater. I poke Fraser in the shoulder and make a little "get with the program" rolling gesture with my hand, and pull my T-shirt over my head. Fraser finally catches on, and by the time he's unbuttoning his flannel shirt, I've unlaced my boots and wiggled out of my jeans. I'm down to my hat, my thermals, and my wool socks.

"Do these come off, too?" I ask, through lips that are probably turning blue. "I've got boxers on underneath."

"It would be best if you took off your longjohns," says Fraser, "but you can leave your hat on."

I goggle at him for a moment, and then realize there's no way that he knows that song. "Your socks and boxers too, of course," he adds. "It's important to keep your extremities warm."

I don't know since when my shorts cover anything that could be considered "extremities," but I let it go. So I strip down to my ratty grey boxer-briefs, and he's wearing nothing but his own white boxers, his Stetson, and his socks. I don't know whether to be turned on or start laughing.

We're both practically in the altogether, and we're trying to get arranged so that we're touching and covered with our castoffs, blankets, and unzipped sleeping bag. It's really hard to drape everything over us while staying underneath it all. We get a few elbows in faces and knees in uncomfortable places, and eventually the Stetson gets traded for a woolen cap, but finally we settle smooshed up against each other, lying on our sides, face to face.

I snake my arm underneath his, so that my hand is resting on his back. He raises an eyebrow and drapes his own free arm around me. "Hey, I'm a cuddly guy," I grin up at him. "Besides, you're _warm_."

He grins back and I think, yeah, I can do this, for a crappy situation it's actually kinda nice. Cozy with the Mountie; this is already the best vacation I've had in a long time. I can feel the grin creeping onto my face and I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to. It's too bad Fraser doesn't have a thing for my ears like his wolf does; the only thing separating our current situation from one of my favorite fantasies is a little tongue action.

"…Ray, Ray, Ray!"

Whoops.

"Huh, Frase?" I ask, focusing on his nose because that's what's right in front of my eyes. It's a nice nose, but I pull back a bit to look up and get the full mugshot, which is much nicer.

He's looking back down at me, with a weird expression on his face. Well, it's not weird, but I don't think it's one that I've ever seen before, and I'm not quite sure what it means. There's the corner of his mouth that's trying not to turn upwards too much, which means that he's amused by something but doesn't want to show it, probably because it's at my expense. His jaw's shut pretty firmly, which means he's prepared to be stubborn about something. His forehead is in danger of wrinkling, which means he's puzzled or unsure. Those are all tells I'm certain of. But his eyes -- I don't recognize them.

I open my mouth to prod him along, but I keep looking at those eyes and a flood of hope chokes the words. He's searching my face and I think I'm seeing *want* there, and maybe some of the same hope I'm feeling.

I need to find my voice again. He's not saying anything, and I'm pretty sure he needs to hear something from me.

"Uh." It's a start. I swallow and try to get a little moisture into my mouth so I can make more words, if I only I could think of any.

Apparently it's enough, because he gives me a look that warms me up all the way down to my toes. And all those little facial tells? They smooth right out.

"Dare," he says, like it's an answer to a question I've asked.

What?

"What?" I ask.

"Dare me," he says. So I do.

I pull him even closer with the hand that's already behind his back, which basically just grinds our chests together, and plaster one of my most challenging looks onto my face. (Dirty Harry #6, I think.) He meets my look with one of his own, and -- whoa! -- I did _not_ know that his eyes could get so dark.

There's no way he doesn't notice what that does to me. I feel him twitch and I bare my teeth in something that feels kind of like a smile. He wolf-snarls right back at me, and suddenly I'm on my back and blanketed by almost 200 pounds of determination.

He's barely hovering over me, braced on his elbows, and puts his hands on either side of my face. I'm not waiting any longer, though, so I stretch up and latch onto his mouth with my own. It's hot and slippery and better than a wet dream. He starts to pull back so I bury my fingers in the back of his hair and drag him down again, and latch my right leg around the back of his knee for good measure.

He responds like I'd hoped, diving right back into my mouth and grinding his pelvis against mine. Jesus Christ, that's fantastic. He moans like something's broken, and I let go of his hair to scrabble for his waistband. My hands skim his hips and he stops kissing me long enough to chew on the corner of my jaw.

I can't say anyone's ever bitten me there before, but there's a line of nerve endings that stretches right down to my dick that lights right up at the pressure. It's a good thing complete and total body-shock doesn't prevent my hands from burrowing under his shorts. He rears up onto his knees at that, and I don't think it's because my hands are cold. Sure enough, he's just skimming out of his boxers, so while he's doing that I take the opportunity to do the same.

We get a little tangled between our skivvies and the blankets and the dog's sleeping bag, but it's all good because it kinda forces us to do some purposeful repositioning. Ben's ruthless efficiency comes in handy here as he gets the sleeping bag laid out underneath somehow while I'm getting the blankets wrapped around the two of us. We're both a little less frenzied by the time we flop back down into something close to our starting positions, lying on our sides face to face.

"So, truth?" I ask.

"Not now, Ray," he says, sliding his hand down my side.

"No, really," I say, suddenly unable to stop. "Here's the truth. I've been wanting this."

"Mmm-hmmm," he mumbles, somewhere in the vicinity of my collarbone.

"And I just -- oh fuck!" He's licking my nipples. I figure he probably gets the gist of what I meant. The back of my head bangs against the floor and I try to keep my eyes from crossing. I grab his shoulders and haul him back on top of me, since that's the quickest way I can think of to get my legs between his. The cold air slices over my damp chest and makes me shiver. Good thing it's like a furnace everywhere we're touching.

I move my hands down to his hips and hold on as I push up against him, which earns me a hot look and a long, slow thrust in return. I get my knees between his and push up and out, opening up a space just wide enough that I can slide right into the gap at the top of his thighs. My dick is surrounded by his silky soft skin and I can't hold back any longer. Suddenly we're crawling up each other but not going anywhere, just thrashing and rubbing in the very best way. Ben's absolutely wild, which is probably the hottest thing I've ever felt. His cock is dragging across the hairs on my stomach, and his mouth keeps latching onto hotspots my neck never knew I had. Meanwhile, my dick has found a happy new home in that space between Ben's legs, and thankyougod he gets it and keeps holding his thighs close together.

I'm nudging the underside of his balls as I thrust and he must like that because I don't think I've heard him say "fuck" before. "Fuuuuuck," actually. I want to make it even better so I pry my right hand away from his gorgeous hip and lick my palm. As soon as I'm done licking, before I've even got my hand wrapped all the way around his shaft, Ben's devouring my mouth. The things he's doing to my tongue make me want him to lick me all over while I'm doing the same right back to him, but that's going to have to wait for somewhere warmer. For now, I just make a nice, tight tunnel with my fist for him to burrow into and try to keep up with the kissing.

Between the tingles from my mouth, my groin, and everywhere in between, I can feel my body gearing up for the big endorphin rush. The head of my cock gets even more sensitive as it pushes in and out of that wonderful space Ben's created for me. He's speeding up, too, and finally releases my mouth and holds my gaze as we batter our bodies against each other.

"Oh," he whispers, and comes all over my stomach. Holy holy holy fuck.

I let go of him before the feel of my hand gets to the point of overstimulation for him, because although "supersensitivity" sounds like it ought to be fun it really isn't. I clamp that free hand down on a very nice handful of Ben's ass. Now that I'm firmly anchored and free to concentrate just on me, a few more thrusts into that groove push me into freefall and I'm coming hard.

The windows are fogged and we're covered in spunk and I feel as warm as I've ever been. This time when I smile at Ben I'm pretty certain it looks goofy instead of menacing. He smiles back, relaxed and affectionate, and rolls onto his side next to me with his arm draped across my chest.

I fish around with my toes -- my socks must have come off sometime during the frenzy -- and grab onto my boxer-briefs. I get them almost within arms' reach just by bending my knee so I flick them the rest of the way into my hand. My own stomach only takes a matter of moments to wipe up, but I can't resist lingering over Ben's curves as I clean him off.

The combined smell of the two of us is musty and sharp all at once. As I'm rubbing increasingly ineffectual little circles on Ben's ass with my balled-up undershorts it's possible that I might be ducking my head down just a little to get a better sniff.

Ben busts out laughing.

For about two seconds I want to protest that I wasn't doing anything hinky, and who does he think he's laughing at, he'd lick an electrical socket covered in dog vomit if it looked like a clue . . . and then I realize I can feel his booming chuckles rumbling through my own chest, we're so close. And he's _laughing_. And he looks happy. And having somebody laughing when they're tucked up against you feels funny, so you can't really help but start laughing yourself.

Pretty soon we're in hysterics, even if they don't last long because we finally start feeling the cold. We find our socks and hats and put them back on, and we situate ourselves amid the blankets _again_. This time, though, we spoon around each other -- his front plastered up against my back -- and tangle our legs together.

I'm feeling pretty smug, and not just in that I-got-some way. I made Ben happy and I think I've found a new religion. Church of Ben. C of B. Sign me up for the bake sale.

"Hey. Ben," I say, nudging him with my shoulder to get his attention in case he's drifting off already, since I can't see his face. "I hear if you get satellite TV up here, you get something like 5 or 6 hours straight of The Simpsons every single night."

And, OK, maybe I can't _look_ at his face, but I can feel his mouth curve up into a smile against my back.

"We'll see," is all he says. It sounds like a promise anyway.


End file.
